


Promotion

by WandererRiha



Category: Suikoden III
Genre: M/M, barts and percy being adorable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 05:21:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1928157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WandererRiha/pseuds/WandererRiha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percival visits his home town shortly after being promoted to the Zexen high command. Somehow, it's not a exciting as he'd hoped. At the moment, he doesn't want praise and parades, all he wants is some peace and quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promotion

Percival Fraulein didn’t feel much like a Lieutenant-General. Lord Gallen had assured him this wasn’t unusual. Having received his promotion at the infamous Battle of Long Grass, Percival supposed he would know. A loftier title, a new, more elaborate uniform, and a raise in pay hardly seemed equal to the nightmare they’d all gone through. His family would be thrilled, would want to make a fuss over him. At any other time he wouldn’t have minded the attention and the associated mini festival that would invariably come with it. At the moment, he just wanted to be alone- or nearly so.

It took a little over a full day’s ride to get to Iksay from Brass Castle. Rather than break up the trip over two days as would befit a horse and soldier fresh from conflict, he and Hessian rose before dawn and traveled practically without stopping. They arrived well after the sun had fallen, and the stars had established themselves, lending light to the sliver of moon overhead; marking both the beginning and the end of his journey in darkness. It seemed fitting, somehow. He didn’t feel ready to face the sunlight just yet. Not without Hessian beneath him, not without a sword in his hand. The battle with the Lizards hadn’t been much of a thing, not really, not compared to Shallow Water, certainly not to Long Grass. For some reason he’d ridden almost the entire way with one hand on his sword hilt. This was Zexen, Iksay. Nothing more dangerous out here than livestock escaped from pens. Yet he didn’t feel comfortable without the leather-wrapped steel in his hand.

Tomorrow he would ride into town the victorious conquering hero; Lieutenant-General Fraulein, member of the Zexen High Command. He would hug his mother and sisters, be clapped on the shoulder by his father, shake hands with his brothers, and suffer endless congratulations. But that was tomorrow. Instead of continuing on down the broad and well-worn cart track that led past his parent’s farm, he turned aside onto a more narrow path beaten hard between the rows of crops. The path wound through lush fields of viney stalks that rose almost as high as his head- even on horseback. It came to an end before a tumbledown heap of stone and timber that could only be called a cottage in the most general sense. One wall had almost entirely fallen in, leaving the chimney side to stick up like a standard on a hill. The battered divided door swung open on loose and rusting hinges, but prompted no other sound.

Inside, the fire, blanketed in ash, smouldered quietly in the hearth. The rotted shutters of the glassless window in the near wall had been left open to allow cool air and moonlight into the dim interior. Against the far wall slumped a miserable old trundle bed. Although the bedstead was battered and the ropes so badly stretched that the corn husk mattress hung hammock like, almost touching the floor, its sole occupant didn’t seem to mind. Barts lay sprawled on his back, dead to the world. Percival noted with some amusement that the farmer hadn’t even bothered to undress or tuck himself in. He’d simply flopped- boots, overalls and all- onto the threadbare counterpane and commenced to sawing wood.

Carefully, Percival climbed over him and onto the side of the bed least occupied by Barts’ wide-flung limbs. Every bunkmate Percival had ever had had complained of him being something of a chokeweed when asleep, flinging arms and legs over the unsuspecting soldier next to him. Borus had called him an octopus and Percival- who was not well acquainted with the sea or its many creatures- had no idea what he’d meant for about three months. Knights were allowed their own beds, even their own rooms if they could afford it. No one would ever believe that Brass Castle’s most notorious flirt, charmer of chambermaids and councilmen’s daughters alike, slept alone every night. Most recently, he’d awoken- not knowing he’d slept but assuming he must have because he’d opened his eyes though he didn’t remember closing them- curled on his side with his pillow not under his head, but clutched in his arms.

This wasn’t Brass Castle, this wasn’t Vinay de Zexay. Barts’ cottage was hardly a place for a Lieutenant-General to bed down. However, the new uniform was carefully packed in his saddlebags, safe with Hessian in the same stable that housed Barts’ team of oxen. The animals were considerably better housed. When it came to the denizens of his farm, on animal and vegetable no expense was spared, frequently leaving man to shift for himself. Not bothering to so much as shed his coat, Percival settled close to Barts, welcoming the honest odor of earth and sweat. The bed wasn’t large, just barely big enough for two people, but if Barts took up the bulk of it that was all right. Barts didn’t mind octopi in his bed. Throwing one arm over Barts’ chest and a leg over his, Percival rested his head on his shoulder. Barts snored on. Wouldn’t he have a surprise in the morning?


End file.
